Wheeling Gull Isle santeria

“Stay,” he bade her, but he didn’t need to — the clasp of his sturdy, sand-flecked foreleg fit snugly against the scalloped blades of her rib cage, drawing her near. The contented purr that hummed in her throat emanated out in rhythmic waves that spoke of comfort and peace, but soon enough the heaviness of sleep drew gradually and inexorably over her like a warm blanket. The purring slowed to a soft, sporadic ticking, and the blink of her bright cerulean eyes became prolonged and delayed until her eyes stayed closed longer than they remained open. Her first instinct was to fight against the vulnerability — her obsessive sheepdog’s mind told her that she had so much to do, still! — but it manifested itself in a small, insignificant way: a quick, distracted flick of one feathered forepaw and a brief tensing of her gamine musculature. Just before dropping off completely, she gave one violent twitch, her muzzle tilting up as though to reassure herself that the weight of Komodo’s arm and the warmth of his presence was indeed real and wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon — and she stayed that way, gazing upon him, until finally her Neptune eyes closed fully and she drifted into sleep.